


Ryan's Little Brother

by hannah_baker



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018-19 season, Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Connor plays hockey Dylan does not, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Ryan Strome is still an Oiler, non-hockey au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-08 01:58:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17377415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_baker/pseuds/hannah_baker
Summary: Nothing seems to be going right for the Oilers, and Connor can’t do anything to change it. Mostly, he wants to escape from the fact that hockey is the only thing he can think about. Until he meets his teammate’s little brother Dylan, a breath of fresh non-hockey air. Dylan isn’t perfect, though. Dylan has his own problems to work through.





	Ryan's Little Brother

**Author's Note:**

> I started this as a way to write about how much I love Connor’s long hair, and also an opportunity to write about Dylan being the rock Connor needs when he’s floundering, instead of the other way around. And it still turned into a fic where Dylan just doesn’t have his shit together, which is my genre. I can’t escape so you can’t escape. 
> 
> Dylan is an alcoholic in this story. If that is a problem for you, it’s best to just skip this one. More details about Dylan’s alcoholism in the end notes. Please let me know if I should add anything to the tags.
> 
> Also, as ever, the hockey here is made up because I literally cannot. 
> 
> Anyway, today is Connor's birthday, so I figured it was a good day to post this, hah. Happy 22, boo.

When Connor McDavid had been twelve, this was all he dreamed about: Being on NHL ice, playing NHL hockey, and yeah, maybe making NHL money. 

 

Now, ten years later with his twenty second birthday on the horizon, he had a different daydream. He spent long hours thinking about what his life would have been like if things had gone differently. If he’d gone to college like Cam had. Or if he’d been okay at hockey—good enough to make it to the show, but not good enough for anyone to be calling him a ‘generational player.’ Someone who had the kind of contract that was mentioned in passing, and not obsessed over. 

 

He dreamed of being someone who could walk out of their house during the day and go to the grocery store without signing twenty autographs. Someone who didn’t have the weight of their entire franchise on their shoulders. 

 

Maybe he’d rent kind of a shitty apartment with a buddy he met in college. He’d work out only enough to help balance the chemicals in his head, but not enough to look like he did now. He’d eat a slice of cake and not think about how it would affect the next day at work. 

 

Maybe he’d have the time to have a dog. Maybe he'd have a boyfriend. 

 

He had everything he’d ever dreamed of. But his team kept fucking losing. His house was huge but it was empty. And he kind of just wanted it to all go away. 

 

\---

 

There were a bare handful of people in Edmonton Connor trusted, and he kept even his favorite people at arm’s length. But a few of the guys were going over to Ryan Strome’s house to eat food and watch football on an open Sunday afternoon, and it sounded like the best option to Connor. 

 

He brought some chicken wings he picked up on the way over, and everyone was gathered in the kitchen, a few wives and girlfriends organizing food on trays. Connor handed off his offering in exchange for a beer and chatted with Darnell for a while about hockey, which was always the topic of conversation no matter what else you were trying to talk about. 

 

The conversation started as being about how Game of Thrones was coming back on soon and ended up being about the power play, and Connor wanted to scream. He wanted to have one day where he didn’t have to talk about hockey. Every second of every day, he was expected to talk about hockey. He couldn’t even pinpoint when the conversation had taken a turn. It was unconscious. He was sure he was at least fifty-one percent of the problem. 

 

As the guys filtered into the living room for the game, Ryan caught him by the arm to welcome him properly and introduced him to the tall kid who’d been standing next to Ryan. 

 

“This is my brother, Dylan. Just finished up his semester and is hanging in Edmonton for a little while. I think you’re the same age,” Ryan said. Connor looked from Ryan to Dylan and back, trying to find some kind of familial resemblance. 

 

“Biological brothers?” Connor asked. Dylan smiled. 

 

“I’m the milkman’s kid,” he said, and Ryan laughed. 

 

“I look exactly like my dad. Our kid brother looks like our mom. Dylan—well, maybe they found him in a basket on the front step or something.” 

 

Dylan rolled his eyes. “I’m missing something you and Matty have, that’s for sure.” 

 

They headed into the living room, and Connor ended up sitting next to Dylan, who was gangly and all limbs, the only one of the guys wearing clothes that didn’t have any hockey or athletic logos on them. He had a can of Cherry Coke in his hands and Connor noticed that while the rest of the team watched the football game with attention, yelling at everyone on screen, arguing about plays and players, and bemoaning their fantasy teams, Dylan played a puzzle game on his phone, staying pretty quiet. 

 

There was something about him that already felt magnetic to Connor. Maybe it was something familiar and Ryan-y that Dylan was giving off. Or maybe it wasn’t that it was familiar energy, but just something welcome. Maybe it was that Dylan wasn’t projecting that anxious alpha energy that Connor was used to from other professional athletes. The energy that comes from needing to always be your best, and being scared it’s all going to crumble at any moment. The energy Connor felt he was one hundred percent made out of. 

 

Dylan had something else going on. His eyes looked sad, his body language was hunched and curled in on himself. But he radiated some kind of calm that Connor wanted more of. 

 

When Dylan stood up from the couch to head toward the kitchen, Connor followed. 

 

The girls were watching their own TV shows in a different room now, and when Connor walked into the kitchen, he found Dylan standing in front of the open fridge staring it down.

 

Dylan turned to him when he heard Connor pull out one of the chairs at the counter and sit down. 

 

“So what was growing up with Ryan like?” Connor asked because he didn’t know what else to ask when you weren’t asking someone about their hockey. 

 

Dylan cracked a little smile, grabbed a string cheese and a Gatorade out of the fridge and held both up to Connor as an offer. Connor nodded yes to both, and Dylan slid them across the island countertop to him before grabbing his own. He leaned his elbows on the island across from Connor, peeled his string cheese open before he spoke. 

 

“You have an older brother too, right?” Dylan asked, and Connor nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure it was like that. Except maybe the opposite. Cause Ryan was always the one who was good at hockey and I was The Other One. And then we have a little brother who’s probably better than Ryan, so I’m The _Other_ Other One. What’s your brother’s name?” 

 

“Cameron. Cam.” 

 

“I’m the Cam McDavid, I guess,” Dylan said, shrugging. “Can we not talk about hockey?” 

 

It sounded to Connor like the most beautiful question in the whole world, and Connor nodded. 

 

“I’m going to be here for winter break,” Dylan said, crinkling up his cheese wrapper. He reached out his hand for Connor’s string cheese wrapper, and tossed them both out under the sink. It was such a casual move that Connor wondered how long Dylan had already been here for. How long was winter break in college? He had no idea. “So I’m going to need some suggestions of thing to do in Yeg.” 

 

“I wouldn’t know,” Connor said wryly. “I keep pretty busy, and when I’m not busy I don’t really...go out.” By ‘busy’ he meant hockey, and they weren’t talking about hockey. It felt good to ignore it a bit—the part of his brain that was screaming _practice and workouts and road trips and team bonding and morning skate and afternoon naps and his fucking diet._

 

“I can understand why,” Dylan said. 

 

“I guess you could go to the West Edmonton Mall,” Connor said with an eyebrow. 

  
“Oh, fuck you,” Dylan said, flicking his Gatorade cap at him. Connor couldn’t help but smile at him, feeling easy around someone for the first time in a long time. Feeling like Dylan was maybe the first person he’d talked to in ages who didn’t want him to account for his play, or ask him for tips, or talk about where his team was struggling. Dylan just wanted to talk about _life._ It was nice. 

 

“What are you studying?” Connor asked. He knew at least a few questions to ask normal people, he supposed. 

 

“History,” Dylan said, shrugging. “I don’t have a discernible passion for it, but I’m good at names and dates and stuff, so it’s easy. I like it enough.”

 

“What do you want to be when you grow up then?” 

 

“A person with a degree, and maybe one day also a job?” Dylan said, his statement turning up at the end in a bit of a question. Connor laughed, just a little chuckle. 

 

“I’m jealous,” he said before he could really think about it, and Dylan’s head tilted to the side like, _what do you even mean by that_. 

 

“You’re not jealous of me,” he said, and this time his statement was a statement. No room for discussion. 

 

“To have a regular fucking life with options out in front of you? Yeah. I’m jealous.” 

 

“Okay, whatever,” Dylan said, and Connor felt the first hint of an edge to Dylan, the first bit of a wall going up around him. Connor wasn’t sure how to stop it, but he hated it instantly, wanted it to go back to where they were before. Just shooting the shit. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Connor said. “I only know one thing. My thing. And I guess I’d like to know more.” 

 

Dylan’s shoulders eased a bit, and Connor hadn’t even seen him tense up. “Do you want to go play video games?” 

 

Connor beamed. Yeah. He didn’t give a fuck about going back into the living room with his team right now. He nodded and followed Dylan upstairs to the guest room he was staying in. Dylan apologized for the mess but Connor barely saw it, desensitized from his own piles of laundry on his own bedroom floor. 

 

They sat at the end of the bed facing the flatscreen on the wall, and Dylan explained that he’d packed some clothes to bring, sure, but most importantly he’d brought his Xbox, because Ryan was gone so much and there was only so much Dylan felt like he could bother Ryan’s girlfriend at a time. 

 

They scrolled through Dylan’s games before settling on Rocket League, and Dylan wiped the floor with Connor. But Connor loved every second of it, having this boy next to him who didn’t look at him like he was the captain of Dylan’s team. Or like he was supposed to bring glory to this team and this city. Or like he was the face of an entire league. 

 

Dylan looked at him like he was a really shitty Rocket League player, and that’s all Connor wanted to be in that moment. 

 

Connor didn’t feel time pass, but there was a knock on Dylan’s door, and Ryan poked his face in. “So that’s where you were hiding the captain,” Ryan said, and Connor’s nice little bubble of being _some guy_ popped. He was back to being Captain Connor. “Everyone else left, you know.” 

 

“You kicking him out?” Dylan asked, sounding offended like a kid who was maybe trying to get his parents to invite his friend to stay for dinner so they could play more video games after. 

 

“Just wondering why his car was still parked in front of my house more than anything.”

 

“I should probably get going,” Connor said, the polite Canadian in him pressing forward like normal. He wasn’t one to overstay his welcome and he knew his welcome was up. 

 

“Finish this game quick?” Dylan asked, and Connor nodded, smiling as Ryan closed the door behind him and left. 

 

When they finished up the game (Connor lost again), Dylan asked if Connor wanted his number. “Like, if you wanted to hang again. I don’t really have anything on my schedule for the next few weeks. Always welcome a video game buddy.” 

 

If it had been a random guy, he probably wouldn’t have. He didn’t like his number really being out there. But it was Ryan’s little brother. He didn’t think Dylan was really going to sell his number or anything. They swapped info and Connor walked out to his car happy to have Dylan Strome programmed into his phone. 

 

It wasn’t the day he was expecting to have, but it was nice. 

 

\---

 

The next day in the weight room, Connor ended up next to Ryan on the bikes, mindlessly pedaling mile after mile, warming up their blood a little. 

 

“So you hit it off with Dylan, huh?” Ryan asked, broaching the topic like such a big brother. Connor could hear an angle to his question, even if Ryan was trying to sound casual about it. 

 

“Yeah. He’s cool. Gotta find a video game I can beat him at though.” 

 

“He’s in university. He plays way more than you. I wouldn’t hold my breath.” Ryan paused in a way that let Connor know he wasn’t done with his thought, so he waited him out. “Dylan is going through some shit. It’s not my shit to tell you about, but he is a little fragile right now.” He let out a breath. “I’m not giving you the shovel talk or anything, but be gentle with him, okay?”

 

That...was not where Connor thought this conversation was going to go. 

 

“Oh. Yeah, dude. No, I’m not going to—”

 

“He’s here to just escape for a bit. Take some of the heat off. Take a breather.” 

 

“I get it,” Connor said. He wished he could take a breather from his life. 

 

“I hope you do,” Ryan said. “And because I’m his big brother, I just want to tell you this: If you do hang out with him again, don’t let him drink.”

 

“Yeah, no problem,” Connor said. He wasn’t a big drinker to begin with, but it made him remember the Coke in Dylan’s hand the day before when everyone else had been drinking beer. 

 

Ryan got off the bike and wiped the sweat off his face with a towel before patting Connor on the shoulder. Then Ryan hit the weights, leaving Connor’s head spinning faster than his feet were. 

 

\---

 

They lost their game that night, and Connor went home to his huge empty house that was just barely big enough to hold his disappointment with himself and not much else. He was thinking he’d watch some tape and punish himself, and he mixed up a shake to bring upstairs with him. But then his phone buzzed and when he pulled it out he saw he had a message from Dylan. 

 

_Wanna play Fortnite or something_

 

No question mark, no preamble about how he was sorry the Oilers lost or anything. He had to know. He had a mopey older brother somewhere in the same house with him. And yeah. Connor wanted to play Fortnite. 

 

He sent back a text to give him a few minutes, and let Dylan know his gamertag, and he sat down on his couch and powered everything up. He put his headset on and got connected with Dylan who had the _stupidest_ gamertag alive, and got their conversation going easily with a chirp which Dylan returned. And the conversation just flowed, sometimes about what Dylan did that day (the grocery shopping, because he’s trying to pull his weight around here) and how even though it was like, below zero out, he’d taken Ryan’s Golden Retriever for the longest walk in the history of man. 

 

Connor tried to think of something to say about his day that wasn’t about hockey and he just fucking couldn’t, until he remembered that Cam had texted him that morning about coming for Christmas, so he told Dylan about that, about his brother and growing up in Newmarket and how he missed his family. 

 

Their conversation had gotten real pretty quick. Everyone on his team, everyone he saw every day was far away from home and missing it. They tried not to talk about it much because everyone felt that pain. It was nice to have someone to tell that to without feeling guilty about it. 

 

Dylan just made some sympathetic noises, didn’t try to make him feel better, or try to fix it. He just absorbed it. 

 

Connor picked up his phone to look at a notification that had lit up and realized it was already past one. They had played so many rounds of Fortnite that it had all blurred together. “Fuck, it got late,” Connor said, and Dylan laughed, just realizing it himself too. 

 

“Shit, dude. I mean, I could play for another couple hours, but I know you probably have to get to bed.” 

 

“Yeah,” Connor agreed. He thought back over the last few hours and realized he hadn’t thought about hockey—about their loss—once. It felt really good. “I should turn in. But thanks, man. For um, the game. Hanging out.” 

 

“I should be thanking you,” Dylan said. “I’m almost always free for video games if you ever want to play, just so you know.” 

 

“Cool,” Connor said, not sure exactly how to explain that this felt like a lifeline. He wasn’t going to try. “Don’t be surprised if I hit you up.” 

 

They said goodnight, and Connor shut down his house, checked locks on doors, rinsed out his shake bottle, and headed upstairs. It was way past his bedtime, and instead of spending the first forty minutes in bed thinking about how he could be better at hockey, he just fell asleep. 

 

\---

 

They were on a road trip. Three days, two games, back home at four in the morning for a day off which felt to Connor like several years away when he started missing Dylan. He was on a late night plane between San Jose and Los Angeles, and he opened his phone up to see what he could scrape up on social media. 

 

But searching Dylan’s name on Instagram, Twitter, or Snapchat didn’t bring up anything. He crawled through Ryans Instagram account to a photo of Ryan and his brothers, and while Dylan was tagged, the tag led to nowhere. So he had Instagram at one point, but he’d deleted it. 

 

Connor respected that. He wasn’t so keen on social media himself. He barely was allowed to have the password to his public social media accounts, which were managed for him by his PR team. He thought about deleting his secret accounts all the time. 

 

But he was still a little disappointed. 

 

Instead, he texted Dylan, iMessage still useful over the plane’s wifi. _Video games when i get home in a couple days? Wanna come over?_

 

And it was just seconds before Dylan texted back. _You’ll regret that._ And then, _if it wasn’t obvious, yes._

 

\---

 

Connor spent the rest of the road trip focusing on his day off, and what he and Dylan would do. He hadn’t hung out with someone outside of the context of hockey...maybe ever, now that he thought about it. He had something to look forward to that wasn’t the end of the season, or seeing his family in a few weeks for Christmas. 

 

He played as good as even he could have expected in LA, and they scraped out a win which was nice. But it didn’t feel as good as sleeping on the plane on the way home, knowing that he could hang out with Dylan the next day. He felt like the only thing he knew about himself anymore was that he wanted an identity outside of hockey, and this felt like the start of that. 

 

He drove home from the airport and crawled into bed, vowing to unpack his suitcase at some point the next day, and set an alarm for earlier than he would have under regular circumstances. And when he woke up, he texted Dylan that he was up and ready. And then Dylan was there, in Connor’s house, messy hair and a big hoodie on, a couple video games and his favorite controller in his hand. 

 

“Oh, fuck, I’m going to get lost in your house,” Dylan said in way of greeting as he slipped his shoes and coat off at the door. 

 

“I’ll put down those tape arrows on the floor like in Ikea for you then,” and Dylan smiled at him, a smile Connor had been trying to remember for days. It didn’t erase whatever exhaustion Dylan was carrying around on his own face, but it was nice, a sweet smile that didn’t blind Connor but did remind him what it felt like to have a crush. He’d tried to talk himself out of that word, tried to think of Dylan as someone he just wanted to be his buddy but...you don’t get to choose who you’re attracted to, and Connor had always had a thing for tall boys. 

 

They got bottles of water from the fridge and settled into the couch in the living room, and Connor couldn’t not notice the way that Dylan’s eyes took in Connor’s big dumb house: wide and unbelieving through every room. 

 

“Stop gaping,” Connor said, shoving a shoulder into Dylan’s on the couch, as he picked up the iPad on the coffee table that controlled everything in his house, from his blinds to the temperature to the lights. He turned the TV on. He could do it from his phone too, but he’d left it in the kitchen somewhere. He liked to not have his phone on him as often as possible. 

 

“I’ve never been in a spaceship before, so forgive me Captain Kirk,” he said, and Connor felt a flinch coming on just at the word Captain. But for the first time ever, that word was a Sci-fi reference instead of a designation of title. Dylan seemed to realize what he said after he said it. 

  
“I didn’t mean to—”

 

“You’re good,” Connor said, and they synced Dylan’s controller to Connor’s Xbox, and started playing. 

 

They ordered food and switched over to some TV, and Connor kept his phone far away from him and just tried to enjoy this little pocket of his life that he felt like belonged to him. 

 

“I’m sure Ryan and Syd are happy to have me out of their house for a while. Especially Syd. Bless her, but I’m sure I’m annoying her every day,” Dylan said as they ate sushi and watched basketball. Connor didn’t care about basketball, but Dylan liked the Raptors. 

 

“Well you’re not annoying me, so feel free to come over whenever,” Connor said. He remembered what it was like living in Taylor Hall’s house, feeling like he was stepping on Taylor’s toes every day. “There’s something to be said about having your own space, that’s for sure.” 

 

“Yeah, I get that you feel that way,” Dylan said, taking a long obvious look around Connor’s huge living room, its high ceilings and professional decorations. 

 

“I hate this house,” he said, shrugging. It was the first time he’d ever said it out loud. He was trying to convince himself he didn’t hate it. But it was in a gated community which he had discovered he needed, and he honestly just didn’t want to move again. 

 

“You hate this house?” Dylan asked, astounded. “What the fuck is there to hate?”

 

“It amplifies loneliness.” 

 

Dylan just made a hurt little sound and scooted a little closer to him on the couch. He knocked their knees together. 

 

After dinner, they decided to put on a movie which Connor was awake during for about fifteen minutes. He hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before, coming off a hard win he worked for. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. When he woke up, the credits were scrolling, and his head was on Dylan’s shoulder. 

 

“You look wiped, man,” Dylan said, his voice this gentle whisper that was so different than the one he used when they played video games and was taunting Connor for being terrible. It was almost tender. Connor wanted to press his face into Dylan’s neck, take a deep breath, bottle up the smell of him, free of the everpresent smell of sweat in every other part of his life. 

 

Dylan cleaned up their take out containers from the coffee table and let himself out, reminding Connor to lock the door after him. They had spent the entire day together and Connor wasn’t really ready to let Dylan leave just yet. But he had a hockey game the next day, so it’s not like he had many choices. 

 

\---

 

They’d dropped three of their last four games, and Connor felt like he was out of steam. He wanted to do that thing he’d seen so many kids his age on Facebook do, which is just pack up a backpack and go spend a year in Europe. He wanted to hide in the woods. He wanted to quit. 

 

He put so much energy into staying strong for his team, having a positive outlook on the rest of their season, and just _whatever_. He was just burnt out. He walked out of Roger’s Place with one thing on his mind, and that was to fucking escape. 

 

He didn’t have a place he could escape to. But he sat down in his car and opened his contacts. He called Dylan. 

 

“Oh, hey man,” Dylan said, sounding a little surprised to get a phone call. “What’s up?” 

 

“Do you want to come over?”

 

“Oh, um—”

 

“You don’t have to, but I’m on my way home, and I just don’t want…” _I don’t want to be alone,_ was what he wanted to tell Dylan, but he didn’t know how to say it without sounding like an idiot. 

 

“Yeah,” Dylan said, understanding without Connor having to say it out loud. Understanding the urgency in Connor’s voice if nothing else. “I’m on my way. Should I bring anything?” 

 

“Nah, whatever. I’ll see you soon.” 

 

They hung up, and Connor drove home in silence, trying not to think about hockey, but only being able to think about hockey. 

 

He got home and took his suit off in favor of pajamas. He couldn’t ignore the wave of relief he felt when Dylan rang his doorbell. He told himself he was going to be cool, but Dylan walked through his front door, and Connor pulled him into a hug that he desperately needed, tucking his face into Dylan’s neck and letting Dylan’s arms come up to hold onto him. 

 

Dylan rubbed his back, and Connor pressed closer and closer to him, long minutes stretching out in front of them. One of Dylan’s hands came up to scratch through Connor’s hair, getting so long that it wasn’t even all the way dry from his shower yet. 

 

Dylan just held onto him until Connor pulled away, the hand that had been in Connor’s hair moving to Connor’s cheek, cupping it gently, a worried look on his face. 

 

“Are you okay?” Dylan asked. He wasn’t asking about Connor’s hockey. He was asking about Connor. 

 

Connor shook his head, looked away as one tear slipped from his eye. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried in front of someone. It had probably been Hallsy, back when Connor was just a kid trying to figure his shit out. Fuck, he was still just a kid trying to figure his shit out. 

 

Dylan wiped the tear away with his thumb, and hugged him again, a short one this time. 

 

“You need something to eat?” he asked, and Connor nodded, let Dylan lead them into his kitchen. Dylan sat Connor down at the breakfast bar in his kitchen and pawed around in Connor’s pantry and fridge, then made them both peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. 

 

“Not exactly five-star, but my mom made me about a thousand of these when I was a kid, you know?” Dylan said, sitting down next to Connor. Connor’s mom had done the same. With a side of apple slices and maybe some carrots. 

 

They finished their sandwiches and Dylan cleared their plates to the sink. Connor followed after him, wanting to stay close, not wanting Dylan to ever walk away from him, even if it was just for dishes. Dylan put the plates in the sink, and when he turned around Connor was right there. So close. Connor could practically feel Dylan thinking about what was going to happen next. 

 

Connor felt out of control of almost every other part of his life, but he could control his actions, and all he wanted to do in that moment was kiss Dylan. So he did, stepping a half-step closer and tipping Dylan’s face down with one of his hands just enough for Connor to press his lips to Dylan’s mouth, Dylan’s tentative hands finding Connor’s waist. 

 

Their kiss was short and chaste, and when Dylan pulled away, Connor felt emptier than a thousand losses in a row. But Dylan had only pulled back enough to ask, “Yeah?” and when Connor nodded he had Dylan’s lips back on his, Dylan pressing him up against the counter, feeling frantic and desperate, chasing the only thing that had made Connor feel good all season. 

 

He had Dylan’s body pressed against his and Dylan’s tongue slipping into his mouth and Dylan felt like the only real thing in Connor’s entire life. The only thing he’d grab on his way out the door if he woke up and his life was on fire. 

 

Their kisses fell into a rhythm, and it had been years since someone had kissed Connor like this, with skill and caring, kissing him deep and slow enough to take him apart. The kind of kiss you have to feel secure enough to surrender to. Dylan was the only person in Connor’s life he felt like he could surrender to. 

 

Dylan’s lips dropped down to Connor’s neck, and Connor held on tight, gripping Dylan’s shoulders. If not for the counter he was pressed up against, he would have been a puddle on the floor. 

 

Dylan’s lips worked down Connor’s neck to the collar of his t-shirt, which he tugged at for more access, revealing Connor’s collarbone surgery scar. Connor felt Dylan pause with surprise for a moment before pressing the most heartbreakingly gentle kiss to the scar. Then he pulled back. 

 

They were both breathing hard. It was the only sound in the room, and it disappeared into the vast emptiness of Connor’s house. Dylan tipped his forehead to rest against Connor’s, their faces so close they had no choice but to share breath. 

 

Dylan’s hands came up to frame Connor’s face, and Connor’s entire world came down to focus on this single moment, with the first boy he’d trusted in years, here in his kitchen late at night because he was sad and had asked Dylan to show up for him. 

 

And he had. 

 

“Stay with me,” Connor asked, feeling vulnerable and scared to even ask, because the most direct way to break your own heart was to want something with all of it. Connor really, really didn’t want Dylan to go home that night. 

 

“Yeah,” Dylan agreed, still a little at a loss for words. Connor hadn’t intended to jump Dylan that night, hadn’t intended to ever act on his feelings for Dylan. But Connor never asked for what he needed, and it felt like Dylan would let him.

 

Dylan took his hand and led him upstairs, and Connor directed him to where his bedroom was, the one at the end of the hall with the double doors that Dylan didn’t make fun of him for, even though Connor could tell he wanted to. 

 

Connor found some sleep pants for Dylan, and he changed and they crawled into Connor’s big bed together. Dylan made Connor set his alarm for the next morning, and then let Connor curl into his chest, and Connor had never felt more grateful for someone in his entire life. 

 

Connor took a deep breath. “No one else has ever been in this bed with me before,” he admitted, and Dylan dropped a kiss on his forehead. 

 

“Then I’m honored,” Dylan said. The thing that Connor liked about Dylan was that he could tell when it was the right time to distract Connor by filling the air with conversation, and when it was time to be silent, and he was quiet now, his hands on Connor’s back scratching gently through his t-shirt. Connor kissed a little at Dylan’s neck, but mostly they just cuddled. 

 

Sex would have been amazing, but Connor knew he was emotional. Knew Dylan had his own baggage. They’d only just kissed for the first time less than a half hour prior, and this was his teammate’s little brother who was holding him like this, keeping him from shattering. It wasn’t the right time. 

 

Connor was tired as all fuck, but he didn’t want to fall asleep just yet. He wanted to savor this feeling, savor the warmth of having someone else in his bed. “What’s college like?” he asked, genuinely curious, thirsty for details for his daydreams of being a normal kid. 

 

“Um, it’s just school. I’m not sure what to tell you about.” 

 

“What’s a normal week like?” 

 

“You want the nitty-gritty of college life? Well, when this puts you to sleep, remember that you asked for it. I’ll tell you a little about last semester I guess. 

 

“Mondays I woke up around ten for my first class. Philosophy. That class kicked my ass, way too much reading. Not enough shit you could just google to find out, you know? So I’d survive philosophy and then grab some lunch. This was the first year I lived off campus, so it would have been smart to pack a lunch, but usually I ended up spending too much money on food. That’s life.” 

 

Connor drank it up, listening to Dylan recount college life with minute detail, everything from office hours with professors to the exact time down to the minute when he had to go to intramural basketball which he said he got recruited for by his friends just because he was tall. 

 

Fuck, _tall boys._

 

Connor didn’t remember if Dylan had stopped talking. He just...fell asleep. When he woke up, Dylan was still there. 

 

\---

 

Connor had practice that day. He felt lighter, even though the team got another verbal lashing for their recent record. He knew some of the guys were worried about being traded, which is what management meant when they said “things would have to change” if they kept playing the way they were. 

 

He felt a little guilty for not being worried about being traded. They would never trade him. 

 

Things felt like they were clicking a little better on the ice, and when Connor got off the ice and into the shower, his thoughts were already away from hockey, already thinking about Dylan. 

 

Maybe this is what guys meant when they said their lives balanced out hockey. He’d never really had something outside of hockey before. Not that he _had_ Dylan. But...they had something. Connor wasn’t one hundred percent sure what it was though. 

 

Ryan caught him on the way to his car, and Connor had been waiting for it. “Dylan didn’t come home last night, which I know you’re already aware of.” 

 

It was a statement, not a question, and Connor wasn’t sure what Ryan was looking for here. “That’s correct.” 

 

“I’m already worried about him. And honestly, kid, I’m worried about you too.” 

 

“I’m not going to hurt Dylan,” Connor said. It was a promise. He meant it. 

 

“Dylan is already hurt. You might feel fragile like glass, Connor, but Dylan is already broken. And that makes him sharp. Don’t cut yourself.” 

 

“I don’t know what to tell you.” 

 

Ryan took a deep breath. “Just...I couldn’t not say something. So now I’ve said it.”

 

“Okay,” Connor said. Ryan shook off whatever weird moment they had, and headed to his car. When Connor got into his own car, he called Dylan. 

 

“Tell me if you’re sick of me yet,” he said when Dylan answered the phone. 

 

“Not yet,” he said, and Connor was already thinking about what look would be on Dylan’s face. A little smirk, the rise of an eyebrow. 

 

“Can I take you out to lunch?” he asked, and Dylan laughed and told him he’d put on real clothes when he got back from walking Ryan’s dog. 

 

\---

 

Connor didn’t take his Xbox on the road with him because while it wasn’t banned, it was frowned upon, and Connor carried the weight of being the team’s Perfect Example like a cross. It meant that when he was on the road, he was either with his teammates wishing he wasn’t, or in his hotel room alone. 

 

When they got back home, it would be Christmas, or at least basically Christmas, because his family would be showing up. 

 

He was laying there in his hotel bed, trying to nap and feeling pretty useless about it when Dylan’s call came in, a picture of him that Connor had weaseled out of him under the guise of his caller ID popping up. Dylan’s curls were a little rumpled, and he was wearing a U of T hoodie, and it was a photo that never failed to make Connor want to cuddle him. 

 

Since they had started spending more time together—spending overnights together, kissing and touching, being naked under Connor’s sheets—all Connor wanted to do ever, at any given time of the day, was to touch Dylan. 

 

“Hey,” he answered, just excited to hear Dylan’s voice. 

 

“Hey, babe,” he said. Connor knew Dylan was far away—Connor was in Philly that night—but hearing his voice made it feel like if Connor just closed his eyes, he could pretend that Dylan was right there. The ‘babe,’ was new and Connor was surprised at how much he liked it. How warm it made him feel. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?” 

 

“Naw, still working on getting to sleep.” 

 

“Okay. Well, I’ll let you go, but I just wanted to hear your voice. Miss you.”

 

“Miss you more,” Connor said, which was sappy, but he knew it was true. They were coming off a win against the Pens, and he always loved beating Sidney Crosby. Honestly, he just liked being on the ice with Sidney Crosby. In his fantasies that didn’t involve quitting hockey altogether, he dreamed of being only good enough for the Pens to want him. He dreamed of playing in Crosby’s shadow, which he supposed he was anyway. Just on a different coast. 

 

He knew if he felt this good about his hockey and still missed Dylan, that there was no way Dylan could compete with those feelings himself. 

 

“My parents and brother are coming tomorrow,” Connor said. He still wasn’t sure how Christmas would affect what they had going. Obviously, Ryan knew about it, but Connor wasn’t sure if Dylan was even out to his parents, or if he wanted to admit that he’d been sleeping in the bed of the captain of Ryan’s hockey team. That he’d flown across the country to escape whatever he was dealing with by climbing into bed with someone. 

 

“Yeah, mine get here tonight,” Dylan said. “Little bro isn’t coming ‘cause of his own hockey.” 

 

“What do you guys do for Christmas?” 

 

“Just dick around I guess. Mom usually makes a big breakfast Christmas morning. We usually go to Grandma’s house on Christmas Eve, but that’s not happening this year, obviously.” 

 

“Do you want to come over Christmas Eve? Your whole family? Is that weird? Too soon?” 

 

Dylan paused, and Connor wished that he could see Dylan’s face. Introducing everyone would be a good band-aid rip-off, and besides, Cam had been bothering Connor for details on Dylan, who he’d been honest but a little cagey about. 

 

“I’ll talk to Ryan about it, and my mom. But I would like to. I’d like to see you.” 

 

“You could meet my brother. The Dylan Strome of the McDavids,” he joked. 

 

“I’d like that. I’ll feel it out. See if Mom has any Christmas feelings that can’t be impeded.”

 

“I want to see you the second I get home,” Connor complained, and Dylan laughed. Being with Dylan had awoken  _feelings_ in Connor that he’d practically forgotten he’d had. He was experimenting with saying them out loud, even if they scared him. Connor was good at doing what scared him. It’s how he got to where he was. 

 

“Easy there, soldier. I’ll see you soon.” Dylan had the kind of voice that made Connor feel like he was always about to make a joke, could always bring levity to Connor’s dark moods. 

 

Connor tried to focus on hockey after they hung up because at some point in the last two weeks, he’d gone from hockey making his obsessive brain race when he was trying to sleep to having Dylan slide into that role. Now, he thought about his backcheck to try to lull himself to sleep. It worked. 

 

\---

 

For the first time in months, Connor was truly happy in his house, the physical structure he’d paid so much fucking money for. His brother was there, and his parents were there, and his mom was making food in the kitchen while the McDavid men loitered for scraps and just to be in the glow of a kitchen that had something in the oven and something on the stove. 

 

The Stromes would be there any minute, and while it wasn’t the kind of Christmas he’d had as a kid, it was closer to the Christmases he’d had since he’d started taking hockey way too seriously. Scraped together, a little different each year, unpredictable. 

 

“Anything you want us to know about your new beau?” his mom asked, arranging fruit on a tray in a radiating spiral. 

 

“Um, not really? He doesn’t drink so don’t offer him a beer. I think that’s it,” Connor said. He and Dylan still hadn’t talked about _why_ Dylan didn’t drink. Connor assumed that Dylan would say what he wanted to say when he wanted to say it. He’d stopped keeping alcohol in his house. He wasn’t really a drinker to begin with. He preferred to eat his calories. 

 

The Stromes arrived in a bustle, coats and shoes and cold air surrounding the door as Connor tried his best to do introductions, and shake Dylan’s parents’ hands. Dylan’s mom hugged him and he could see Dylan’s smile over her shoulder, but he could also see the skeptical look on Ryan’s face. He didn’t seem to be one hundred percent sold on Dylan and Connor, but Connor didn’t know what to do about that other than try to make sure to be as good to Dylan as possible. 

 

There was so much food in Connor’s kitchen. More than there ever had been before, he was pretty certain, even when he had his housewarming for the team. Well, maybe not then. But for nine people, absolutely. 

 

Connor had hired a company to put a tree up in his house, and it was a little boring, but it looked festive enough. Seemed to please the moms. 

 

Connor’s mom was really into ‘heavy appetizers,’ so there was no sit-down meal. Just hours of grazing on the crockpot of meatballs and charcuterie. It took Dylan a little time, but an hour in, he’d drifted close to Connor, his hand finding the small of Connor’s back as they all stood around the kitchen island, listening to Ryan’s girlfriend Sydney tell the bonkers story of how it took three and a half hours to pick up Ryan’s parents from the airport, and what a mess that was. 

 

Connor’s kitchen was warm and smelled like sugar and fat, and finally had the many voices jostling for attention that he imagined was the goal of the architect who designed this huge monstrosity. This was not a home for a single guy. It was a home for a family. And Connor wasn’t ready to have kids, but he was ready to have more. He was ready to have this. 

 

As everyone got tired and full, they moved to the living room, where Connor turned on the gas fireplace, and Dylan put A Christmas Story on the TV, and everyone kept talking over the movie. Connor watched as his mom had seemingly become instant friends with Dylan’s mom and Ryan’s girlfriend, while he and Ryan and Cam and the dads talked about golf. 

 

Connor looked to his side, expecting to see Dylan at his side where he’d been most of the night, but at some point he’d slipped away. Connor thought he was probably hitting the restroom, so he gave it a few minutes. Then another few minutes. Fifteen minutes of checking his watch and looking over his shoulder for Dylan, and he figured it was time for a search-and-rescue. 

 

He excused himself and wandered the main floor, not finding Dylan in any of the spots he expected. Just the normal empty rooms, one after another. He headed upstairs. Maybe Dylan just needed a breather. Connor would have texted him, but he’d left his phone in his room. He headed there first. 

 

“Dyl?” he called out softly into the vastness of his master suite. For the first several months of living in his house, he slept in a guest room because he could barely handle sleeping in such a big room. It was the opposite of cozy. 

 

He didn’t find Dylan in the bedroom, but there was a light on in the bathroom, the door cracked open a bit. 

 

“Dylan?” he called, knocking softly on the door as he pushed it open. 

 

He found Dylan in the empty bathtub, fully clothed, an open beer in his hands. He didn’t look up to meet Connor’s eyes. 

 

Connor closed and locked the bathroom door in case someone came looking for them, and stepped forward. 

 

“Hey, baby,” he said gently, taking the beer out of Dylan’s hands. Dylan let him. It felt full, the glass dewey in the humid room. It was probably a bad idea to have had any alcohol in the house at all, but Connor didn’t know the rules, didn’t know what Dylan was up against. Dylan hadn’t told him. Plus, he figured if Dylan’s parents were drinking, it was probably fine, right? 

 

It was not fine. Dylan did not look fine. 

 

Connor poured the beer down the sink and left the bottle at the bottom of the sink, so Dylan wouldn’t have to look at it. Then he crouched next to the tub, huge and jetted and almost never used. He took Dylan’s hand, pressed kisses to his knuckles. 

 

Finally Dylan looked at him. He wasn’t crying, but he didn’t look far away from it, and Connor wanted to protect him. Hold him. 

 

“Talk to me,” Connor asked, and Dylan just tilted his head, sighed deep, like what he wanted to say was trapped. 

 

Connor stood and motioned for Dylan to scoot up in the tub so Connor could climb in behind him, hold him close to his chest. This wasn’t really what Connor would have envisioned their first bath together being like, but whatever. Expectations and reality and all that. 

 

“It just reminded me of how badly I disappointed them, listening to them tell your parents how proud they are of Ryan. Listening to your parents talk about how amazing Cam is. Like, Cam is their non-NHL kid, and they still love him just as much as you, you know?” 

 

“Your parents love you.” 

 

“I haven’t been making it easy on them lately,” Dylan said, like the only way for a parent to love their child is for them to be perfect. “That’s what my mom literally told me this morning. So that felt good.” 

 

“Shit. Fuck her. Do you want to tell me what happened?” 

 

“Jesus,” Dylan said, his hands covering his face. “I’m such a fuckup and you’re fucking Connor McDavid, I can’t even believe—”

 

“Dylan, I’m not—I’m just Connor. And I like you. For who you are. You are important to me.” 

 

“You don’t even know me,” Dylan said, his voice so anguished, shaky, sharp, just like Ryan said he was. 

 

“I want to,” Connor said. “I want to.” 

 

Dylan took a breath. “Are you sure?” 

 

“I am more sure about you than I think I have ever been about anything,” Connor said. It sounded like a lie, because the truth of it was so big. But he couldn’t lie to Dylan. 

 

“Alright. So. I am not here on winter break. You don’t have winter break when you aren’t in school.” His breath caught, and Connor smoothed a hand down Dylan’s chest. He wanted to be able to look Dylan in the eyes while they did this, but maybe not having eye contact helped Dylan feel comfortable enough. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was what Dylan was finally telling him. 

 

“I didn’t enroll for next semester so I could get my drinking under control. It started as an issue my freshman year, honestly. Drinking every night. Parties every night. My brother was in the NHL and it was only a matter of time until Matty was too, and I just felt like a piece of shit. My hockey never came together enough for that for me. 

 

“But drinking made every bad feeling in my life feel like it was at arms’ length. So I kept doing it. I passed my classes freshman year, and told myself that this is just what college was like. Everyone drank a lot. I drank over summer break, but again, partying. It felt normal. I didn’t think about it as something to be worried about. 

 

“By sophomore year, I was getting blackout drunk three times a week, at least. I remember so little of that year it’s fucking embarrassing. I failed a few classes, my 9am for sure, because I never went. I think I literally went to that class three times. That’s when it started feeling like a problem. 

 

“This year, I was supposed to be cleaning up my act. I don’t think my parents thought of it as anything other than just me being irresponsible. I moved into an apartment with some buddies who made bad decisions like I did, and everything just...spiraled. I got to the end of the semester, and realized I couldn’t pass a single class I’d taken. I showed up for meetings with professors drunk. I drank to numb the pain of hating myself for drinking. 

 

“Anyway, the act isn’t quite clean yet. I’m twenty-seven days sober. When I’m not hanging out with you I go to meetings. I’m in Edmonton basically because I don’t know anyone here. To get away from the people who enable my bad decisions. And my mom keeps asking me all these questions that make me feel like she doesn’t trust me, and I guess she shouldn’t.” 

 

“You didn’t drink that beer,” Connor said, because he didn’t know what else to say. “I don’t know how long you were in this bathroom, but you knew I would come find you. And you didn’t drink that beer. You didn’t want to.” 

 

“I didn’t want to. I did want to. It’s...both. It’s complicated.” 

 

“It’s fine to be complicated,” Connor said. Connor felt Dylan relax against his chest for the first time since he sat down in the tub, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for telling me. You’ve been dealing with my existential bullshit for two weeks solid, while carrying your own heavy weight on your shoulders. I want this to be...equal.” 

 

He could see the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of Dylan’s mouth. “I’ve liked taking care of you when you’re a sad sack. Takes me out of my head. Makes me feel like I’m doing something good.” 

 

“You’re so good, Dylan,” Connor said, and Dylan let out a whimper, twisted in their cramped position enough to press a kiss to Connor’s lips. He tasted like meatballs and Cherry Coke, and not at all like beer, and Connor couldn’t believe how strongly he felt about Dylan after such a short period of time. 

 

“This is so uncomfortable,” Dylan said, and Connor laughed and nodded, letting Dylan climb out of the tub first. When Dylan pulled Connor to his feet, he pressed another kiss to his lips immediately, soft and lingering, and Connor had never been in love before but he couldn’t imagine the feelings he was having meaning anything other than that. 

 

“Do you want to go back downstairs?” Connor asked. Connor was kind of a misanthrope when it came to being emotional around people he didn’t know well, like Dylan’s parents. Plus, it was Christmas. No one wants to feel like the rain cloud over Christmas, or like they need to act or behave a certain way. 

 

“Not really,” Dylan said, and Connor nodded, kissed him again. 

 

“Want me to stay up here with you?” 

 

Dylan nodded, not even able to say yes out loud. 

 

“Wanna stay the night?”

 

Another nod. 

 

“Okay. You get cozy in bed. Pick something to watch. I’ll be right back, alright? I’m gonna get waters and snacks, let folks know the deal.” 

  
“Thanks, baby,” Dylan said. Connor was so used to Dylan being this steady presence in his life that he wanted to return the favor.

 

Before he went downstairs he pulled Dylan into a hug, holding on tight. “Thank you for trusting me,” he said, and felt Dylan nod where his face was tucked down on Connor’s shoulder. 

 

When he braved the living room, everyone was still there, still eating, still talking. Cam gave him a look that clearly communicated to Connor that he thought he and Dylan had just fucked or something, and he gave Cam a little head shake, because even thinking about that as being how they spent their time felt wrong to him. 

 

“Uh, Dyl isn’t feeling great,” Connor said, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m gonna go keep him company, but he’s gonna stay here tonight. Said he’d be back for breakfast tomorrow.” 

 

Connor could tell that Dylan’s parents were too polite to say anything negative, but thought that it was time to get home anyway. His family assured him that they could get themselves settled in for the night as his mom puttered around the kitchen getting leftovers ready for the fridge. 

 

“Do you have ginger ale for Dylan, sweetheart?” she asked, digging through his fridge. She came back with a bottle of water and a bottle of blue Gatorade and a disappointed sigh, like Connor’s house wasn’t well stocked enough to take care of someone. 

 

“His stomach is fine, but I’m sure he’ll appreciate these.” 

 

“It was so good to meet him, you know. The way he looks at you,” she said, smiling her mom smile at him, giving his arm a squeeze. 

 

“I really like him,” Connor admitted. 

 

“I can tell, honey. I like him too,” she said and patted him on the cheek. “Go take care of him.” 

 

Dylan was a ball of blankets in Connor’s bed, and he had a basketball game from earlier in the week that he’d had Connor DVR for him (all Raptors games were now DVR’d at Connor’s house) on in the background, a video game on his phone. He'd deleted his social media to get a fresh start, and the phone games were helping him wean off his phone a little more, or just be a distraction when he needed it. 

 

Connor skipped pajamas, opting to just strip to his underwear and climb in after Dylan, spooning up behind him, so they could both face the TV which was mounted awkwardly on a side wall of his bedroom, because the room was so massive.

 

“Your fam left. They hope you feel better.” 

 

“I feel good now,” Dylan said, his hand finding one of Connor’s and pressing it more firmly against his chest. 

 

“I like this, you know? Being with you. Navigating shit with you.” 

 

Dylan turned around to face Connor. “I had been planning on taking a couple weeks out here and seeing how it went. Even after I met you, I figured you were probably perfect, and would never like me once you knew me. I was afraid I was going to scare you away tonight.” 

 

“No,” Connor said, pulling Dylan close to him, tangling their legs together. “You’re not scary. You’re Dylan,” he said, and Dylan rolled his eyes at him. 

 

“You’re a dork.” 

 

“I don’t know how else to tell you what I’m trying to tell you,” Connor admitted. “But I feel like in the last few weeks, I just realized that I have a heart in my chest, you know?” 

 

Dylan framed Connor’s face in his hands and kissed him, deep and slow, and really, this was all Connor wanted for Christmas. Just Dylan’s mouth on his for as long as he could figure out how to keep this going. 

 

“I know,” Dylan finally responded when they pulled apart. 

 

“Raptors took the lead,” Connor said, taking a peek over Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan rolled his eyes. 

 

“They win. I only watch old games if they win.” 

 

“That’s a good policy.” Dylan had kept Connor’s face in his hands, just kept stroking Connor’s cheeks, touching him.

 

“God, you’re beautiful. Have I told you that your long hair just fucking does it for me?” Dylan asked.

 

“You’ve mentioned it,” Connor said, laughing. The first time he blew Dylan, he thought that Dylan liked having his hands in Connor’s hair more than Connor’s mouth on his dick. 

 

“You were cute when you were a clean-cut kid too, but you’re like, sexy now,” he gave Connor some silly eyebrows and Connor pushed him onto his back to press a mess of kisses over his face, making Dylan giggle. 

 

“You’re already in my bed, you know. You don’t need to flatter me.” 

 

“Sometimes it’s just nice to hear that someone is admiring you. So here I am. Admiring you.” 

 

“You want me to wax poetic about your eyes, or your little dimple?” Connor asked, pressing his thumbprint to the dent in Dylan’s cheek, visible only because he was smiling. 

 

“Please,” Dylan said, smiling even bigger, sillier. 

 

“Maybe for Christmas I’ll write you a poem,” Connor said. They’d already discussed no gifts. It was early, and while Connor was already planning on spoiling Dylan rotten for his birthday, Christmas might have been too much too soon. 

 

“I was planning on giving you something else,” Dylan said, his smile turning into a very suggestive smirk. 

 

Dylan jerked him off exactly how they had been, Connor braced above him, his teeth biting into Dylan’s shoulder as he came. And because it was Christmas, he sank down below the sheets to give Dylan some quality time to play with his hair. 

 

\---

 

Dylan woke Connor early on Christmas morning, already out of bed and dressed. Connor groaned. He’d become very spoiled by waking up tangled up with Dylan, and he’d been looking forward to it that morning, too. 

 

“I need to hit a meeting before I go home for breakfast,” he said, and Connor instantly felt selfish for wanting cuddles. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, good. Merry Christmas,” he said, still sleepy and not very articulate. He reached out to grab Dylan’s arm. Dylan sat down on the mattress next to him and leaned down to kiss him. “Proud of you.” 

 

Dylan gave him a soft little look that made Connor happy for every single thing he’d ever done in his life to get him to this point. If he had to become a generational fucking hockey player in order to be on Ryan Strome’s hockey team just to meet his little brother, so be it. It was all worth it. 

 

“I love you,” Connor said, seeing no reason not to tell Dylan what he was feeling. It felt too big to stay inside of him. 

 

“Baby,” Dylan said, leaning in to kiss him again. When he pulled back, Connor shuffled up in bed to sit, to squeeze Dylan’s hand. 

 

“You don’t have to say it back. Work on what you need to work on. And I’ll be here. Loving you.” 

 

Dylan looked down where their hands were entwined. “I gotta go talk about how bad I want a drink. Then I need to eat my mom’s pancakes or something.” He shook his head, already stressed about being in the same room as his parents again. Connor gave his hand another squeeze. 

 

“You want to stay here again tonight?” 

 

Dylan nodded. “Yeah. Please.” 

 

“Come over whenever. We’ll be here all day. Even if you need to bail right after breakfast.” Connor could see the tension in Dylan’s forehead, which had always been there. He was just starting to recognize it for what it was though. 

 

“Thanks, Con. Okay, I actually need to get going.” 

 

Connor kissed him again and let him leave. He checked his phone. It was six, still early, but his mom was probably up. He scrolled Instagram for a bit, liked his teammates’ Christmas posts, figured he might as well start out the Christmas wishes in the team group text. Captain and all that. He had a family Christmas photo due to the woman who ran his Instagram no later than two in the afternoon, so he’d have to be presentable by then. 

 

He dragged himself out of bed to shower and put sweats on, then headed downstairs. 

 

He was right. His mom was sitting in the living room with her iPad and a cup of coffee, and she waved to him across the wide expanse of Connor’s open floor plan as Connor grabbed his own cup of coffee. He hugged her, where she was sitting in the big armchair by the fire, not yet lit, then sat down on the ottoman in front of it. 

 

“Merry Christmas, sweetie,” she said, her smile so sweet and mom-y. Connor has spent most of his life after early childhood not living in her house, but his mom was still home to him. 

 

“Merry Christmas.” 

 

“I saw your young man as he was leaving this morning,” she said, and Connor blushed, thinking about telling Dylan he loved him such a short time before. “Seems like he has a lot on his plate. Is he doing okay?” 

 

Connor’s mom was the kind of mom who was sort of everyone’s mom. She mommed his friends and she mommed the kids in the neighborhood, and Connor saw her wipe barbeque sauce from Ryan Strome’s cheek the night before, so Connor knew that her concern was genuine. She wasn’t trying to point out to Connor that he was getting involved with someone who Connor should be careful around. She could already see her kid was attached, and her care had already extended to Dylan because he was with Connor. 

 

Kelly McDavid, man. She was a keeper. 

 

“Yeah. He’ll be okay. I think it’s stressful to have his parents here.” 

 

“Sounded last night like they’re pretty hard on him,” she said, putting a hand on Connor’s knee. “I can’t pretend to know their business, but you just let Dylan know that if he needs a mom who isn’t his mom, I’m here. Even from home.” 

 

Connor smiled at her, combed his hair back out of his eyes. 

 

“When did you get so grown up? I swear, you were just a little boy yesterday,” she said, taking a good look at him.

 

“Mom,” he grumbled, getting the full mom experience. He liked it though. Liked having her here. 

 

“What do you say we go start breakfast, and see if the smell of bacon lures your brother and dad downstairs?” 

 

Bacon sounded great to Connor. 

 

\---

 

Dylan live-texted his morning to Connor after he got out of his meeting. Breakfast was trying. His parents were tense with him, but Syd put blueberries in the pancakes so not all was lost. The tension just kept building all day. It wasn’t like, yelling. Just looks, pointed comments, annoying questions.

 

_Please save me,_ Dylan texted, halfway through dinner. 

 

_Come over. Dessert soon. My mom makes this chocolate cake. I want you to have some._

 

_Gonna get shit from my parents_

 

_You’re going to get shit from them regardless, right? I wanna hug you._

 

_You’re a sap, Con._

 

_Yeah. Come over._

 

Connor’s own day was lazy, just opening presents and eating food and playing with the drone Connor got for Cam, which they had already crashed a handful of times. He sent a photo of him and his dad and brother to his PR team, and they posted it with a nice McDavid Men caption. He didn’t have much to complain about. 

 

Except for knowing Dylan was having a tough day. 

 

He told his family Dylan was coming over, and his brother immediately finished his beer and tossed the empty in the recycling before grabbing a water to replace it. His mom finished her wine and washed the glass to put it away. His dad put the Scotch Cam had gotten him back in the guest room Connor’s folks were staying in. Connor didn’t even have to ask. He was grateful. 

 

By the time they left, there wouldn’t be any alcohol left in his house. He’d already decided to stop drinking himself. He didn’t want to be the person making Dylan’s life any harder. 

 

When Dylan rang the doorbell, Connor’s mom was cutting the cake, a flourless chocolate torte that she used to make him for his half-birthday during the summer, since she was so rarely with him for his actual birthday. Connor’s favorite. 

 

Connor went to get the door, and pulled Dylan into a kiss barely after closing the door behind him, his face a little cold still from being outside. He had his hands on both sides of Dylan’s face, watched it relax as he looked at Connor. 

 

“Alright, this was the right decision,” Dylan said, letting out a breath. Connor hung up his coat, and watched as Dylan walked into the kitchen, getting a big hug from his mom. She rubbed his back and whispered something in his ear, and Dylan nodded, and pulled her into another hug after she let go. She reached all the way up to smooth a little flyaway piece of his hair. 

 

Dylan just looked like he belonged there. 

 

Connor’s mom gave Dylan the first piece of cake, and they sat around the living room, chatting by the fire, a Christmas movie that was playing on TV on in the background. They told Dylan about McDavid Christmas, and didn’t push when it was pretty clear Dylan didn’t want to talk about his own Christmas. 

 

Connor’s mom just kept offering Dylan different drinks. Could she make him tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate? Dylan kept saying he was fine with water, until Connor stepped in for him. 

 

“He’s fine with water, Mom. Really.” But then he turned to Dylan, a sudden thought having entered his mind. “Unless you want a Gatorade instead?” 

 

“Oh my god, McDavids,” Dylan said, tipping his head back on the couch cushion behind him dramatically. 

 

But it’s sweet for Connor to watch his family try to get to know Dylan. They’re all a little surprised to hear that Dylan hasn’t been to one of Connor’s games yet (“especially with Ryan on the team, I would have assumed…” Connor’s mom started), but Dylan explained that he has some hockey baggage (not being good enough, a knee injury that made it difficult to skate by high school, the sheer volume of alcohol in a hockey arena), that makes it tough. 

 

Connor could see his own family struggle to talk about something that wasn’t hockey, and he understood that for sure. But Dylan liked other things. 

 

He got Dylan talking about basketball a little, and the Albertan politics he’d been reading about since he got there. He talked about how he wasn’t in school now, but he’d been a history major and wanted to finish that off someday. He sounded so calm and collected as he spoke, but their hands were entwined, and Connor could feel how clammy Dylan’s hand was, could feel Dylan’s nervous little squeezes. 

 

It was late when they went to bed, or at least it felt late. Connor’s family was leaving the next day, so they were trying to soak each other up. By the end of the night, Connor had Dylan’s head in his lap, and he combed through Dylan’s curls as Dylan napped. He’d had the longest day of any of them. 

 

“I should get this one to bed,” Connor said, rubbing Dylan’s arm a little to wake him up. 

 

By the time they got into bed, Dylan was a little awake again. They were laying next to each other, their faces just inches apart. They barely had to whisper to hear each other, the ceiling fan in Connor’s huge room so far away from them at the very top of the vaulted ceiling. Dylan had put a Raptors game on in the background. Connor wasn’t sure exactly what day it was from, but he assumed they won, per Dylan’s rules. The sound of the TV was muffled, but you could still hear the squeaking of shoes on hardwood, which Connor figured would hopefully be his plague for as long as Dylan kept wanting to show up in his bed. He prayed to fall asleep to sneaker squeaks forever. 

 

“My folks are leaving tomorrow too,” Dylan said. “They were going to stay longer, stay with me for a little bit. But it became pretty obvious that that is not a good idea, so they switched their tickets. Which according to Ryan was incredibly expensive, so I probably owe him for that.” 

 

“Just like, an extra dog walk, and maybe make him dinner one night,” Connor said, his hand coming up to cup Dylan’s cheek. Dylan’s facial hair was coming in a little unevenly, his cheeks bare and smooth, and his upper lip and chin prickly. He hadn’t shaved that day, and when they kissed, Connor could tell. He loved the rasp of it on his lips. “How long are you staying for?” It felt vulnerable to ask, because he knew that no matter what Dylan said, the next step would be for Connor to try to convince him to stay just a little longer than that. 

 

“No departure scheduled,” Dylan said. “It’s...it’s good out here. It’s good to be away from my parents. It’s good to be away from my university friends. Ryan and Syd have been really good to me. Syd especially, since we have so much Ryan-free time together. I thought it would be weird to spend so much time with her, but she’s working through her own depression while I work through my shit, so we spend a lot of time trying to distract ourselves, keep our hands busy. Ryan got us a candle making class to take during your next road trip for Christmas.” Dylan smiled at the thought. Connor didn’t think of Dylan as being crafty, but _why not,_ if it helped. 

 

“I think I’ll be here for a while,” Dylan clarified. 

 

“I want you to stay here forever,” Connor said, his feelings just completely unable to stay inside of him. “But I feel guilty being gone so much. I don’t want you to be alone.” 

 

“I didn’t come out here for you. I came out here knowing the deal on the Oilers schedule. Syd and I are making candles. I’m not your responsibility. I’m not a project, Con. I’m a person. And you’re not my keeper.” The way he said it felt like he was letting Connor down gently, like he was establishing a boundary. 

 

“I just worry.” 

 

“You have hockey to worry about,” Dylan said, and Connor took a breath. He hadn’t felt the weight of their recent losses through all of Christmas break, come to think of it. He’d still thought obsessively about how they could improve their zone entries and exits because that’s what his brain did on autopilot, but he didn’t feel crushed by worry, or hockey anxiety. 

 

It also wasn’t replaced with Dylan-related anxiety or worry. It was just replaced with Dylan. 

 

“You’re right,” Connor agreed. His hand was still on Dylan’s cheek and he swept his thumb over the curve of it, touched it to the dimple he loved so much. “I just want to be with you.” 

 

“I want to be with you, too.” 

 

“I know that’s not an easy ask, to be with me. I’m gone a lot. I can’t be out. Not yet.” 

 

“Oh, I am not here to be Connor McDavid’s public boyfriend. Imagine,” Dylan said. Connor couldn’t help but laugh. Yeah. That sounded like purer hell for Dylan than it would be for Connor. 

 

“But would you want to be my not-public boyfriend?” 

 

Dylan smiled easily, shifted to press Connor onto his back. He swept Connor’s long hair off his forehead, left a kiss on the now-bare skin there. “Yes,” he said, then pressed a kiss to Connor’s lips, short and sweet. “Connor McDavid’s boyfriend. If you had told me that a month ago, I would have put good money on it not happening. Like, my life savings kind of good money.”

 

“If you’d told me a month ago that I would fall in love with the most beautiful boy—”

 

“If you’d told me Connor McDavid, savior of hockey, was this big of a fucking sap—”

 

“If you’d told me—” but Dylan cut him off with a kiss, and Connor’s hands slid down to find Dylan’s ass. 

 

\---

 

The break was over, their families were gone, and Connor went back to hockey. 

 

In their first pre-game interview, one of the journalists asked about how the holiday break went. Connor could feel his cheeks heat, unable to not think about having Dylan’s tongue in his ass, but he talked about his family, and the cake his mom made because he knew how much the media loves concrete details. 

 

They won that night, and Connor rushed through media to get back home where Dylan was meeting him. They sucked each other off on the couch, then settled in to watch the Raptors game. 

 

Connor was on the floor between Dylan’s legs as Dylan worked absently on his shoulders. “So do you think Kawhi Leonard is gonna sign on again?” Connor asked casually, watching as they mopped up sweat from the hardwood during a break in play. 

 

Dylan paused his movements on Connor’s shoulder, and Connor turned to look up at Dylan, a baffled look on his face. “You looked up Raptors news for me? Even though you don’t give a single shit about basketball?” 

 

Connor laughed. “I mean. I can like the Raptors for you.” 

 

Connor stood from where he was sitting and dropped himself into Dylan’s lap, knees on either side of Dylan’s hips, his hands on Dylan’s face. 

 

“You’d use your brainspace on basketball for me?” Dylan asked him. 

 

“It’s not like every basketball fact I learn pushes a hockey play out of my head. I can remember some players’ names in order to have a conversation with you.” Connor had spent some time earlier in the day reading news articles and trying to memorize the roster in order to have something to say to Dylan while they watched games that wasn’t just comparing it to hockey. 

 

“Fuck. You actually like me,” Dylan said, a little wonder in his voice. Connor dipped his face down to Dylan’s, kissed him long and slow. 

 

“So the words ‘I love you’ don’t mean I love you. But the words ‘do you think Kawhi Leonard is gonna sign a new contract’ do,” Connor clarified, their foreheads resting against each other. 

 

“Yeah,” Dylan said. He kissed Connor, holding his face gently, petting his scruffy beard a little over his jaw. “I love you, too,” he said when he broke the kiss. 

 

Hearing those words returned to him felt nothing like what Connor had expected. He’d thought it would feel as good as saying them to Dylan felt, but it felt a thousand times better. It felt like winning the cup, except he probably wasn’t going to win the cup. The cup was a dream, and Dylan was right here under him, telling Connor he loved him. 

 

And nothing had ever felt like this before. Not going first overall. Not signing a contract for millions of dollars. Nothing. 

 

\---

 

Epilogue: Dylan

 

The Oilers didn’t make the playoffs, but they didn’t expect to. Dylan flew home with Connor and moved into his place in Toronto with him. It felt natural at that point, like no other option would have made sense. Connor had offered to get Dylan a separate place to stay if he wanted it, but Dylan knew Connor didn’t do very well on his own.

 

Connor’s place in Toronto was a condo, and Dylan could immediately see how much happier he was in a smaller space, the one bedroom and kitchen with one oven. One (huge) couch in the living room. No boundless echo. 

 

Dylan was still taking it a day at a time, but he was sober, and he was happy. He got a part-time temp job at an office, to see if he could do it. It wasn’t so bad. Connor was happy, even after taking a verbal beating from Edmonton media for the last couple months of the season. He always had Dylan to come home to. 

 

And when Connor had to be back in Edmonton for promotional stuff, Dylan had dinner at the McDavid’s place, letting Kelly mom him. He wanted to work on his relationship with his own parents too, but baby steps. For now, he’d accept Connor’s mom asking if they were getting enough vegetables while feeding him cake. 

 

He liked the group of guys in the local AA meetings he went to, liked even more that they, more often than not, would go shoot hoops after a meeting together. It was a different kind of brotherhood than what he had with his actual brothers, but it was vital. 

 

And next season, he’d be back in Edmonton. Maybe he’d help Connor sell his house, find something smaller. Maybe he’d take that soap making class with Syd she’d been eyeing. Maybe he’d take some university classes online. 

 

He’d figure it out. 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes about Dylan’s alcoholism: Connor knows early that Dylan doesn’t drink, but it isn’t until Christmas Eve when Connor finds Dylan with an open bottle of beer in his hands in the tub in the master bedroom of his house that he learns more about Dylan’s alcoholism. He binge-drank his way to failing his classes and dropping out of college and was sent off to Edmonton to get his shit under control. He goes to AA meetings to manage his sobriety. Dylan does not drink in this fic. He’s sober the whole time. 
> 
> You can find my fic blog on Tumblr [here](http://betsywritesfic.tumblr.com), and my personal blog (mostly hockey) [here](http://thewestishharpooners.tumblr.com) :)


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